


Reach Heaven by Violence

by mongoose_bite



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Breaking the Universe, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Derogatory Language, Explicit Language, F/M, Foe Yay, Revenge, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dragonborn, Rath, failed to kill Mercer Frey in Irkngthand. As a consequence each embarks on an obsessive quest to visit vengeance on the other for which all of Skyrim will pay the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Decision

This is how it ends, she thought, as it should.

Rath scrambled up the statue's arm, her Nightingale boots gripping the ancient stone silently. It wouldn't have mattered if she'd been wearing iron; the water gushing from the burst pipe in the ceiling filled the stone chamber with noise and only the loudest of sounds could cut through it.

She wouldn't hear him coming, and he wouldn't hear her.

She scrambled up onto the shoulder, sparing only the briefest glance at the serene, now eyeless face of the statue.

She searched the shadows, the Razor in her right hand and Chillrend gleaming in her left. 

A ripple in the air, a suspicion of movement had her whirling around and she hissed as his blade sliced across her ribs, the poison and enchantments on it burning like she'd been branded. She struck out with the Razor, its needle sharp point punching through both his glove and his forearm before he batted her away again. 

“Is that the best you can do?” Mercer had to shout over the sound of water.

Rath smiled, her teeth gleaming white against her brown skin. There he was, incapable of staying out of the limelight for more than a few moments.

She heard the clash of weapons below, as Karliah fended off the bewitched Brynjolf, and she didn't care. Indeed, she was glad Mercer saw fit to distract the Dunmer, and proud that she was the enemy he chose. This was right. He'd said it himself.

 _I knew it would end with one of us at the end of a blade._

There was nothing between them in style. They both fought without flourishes or feints, just fast, brutal strikes that wore down an enemy until they were open, and then followed up without mercy until they were broken.

She had youth and height, and he had strength and experience.

There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide on the statue. They ducked and parried, mindful of the damp, slippery stone beneath their feet. They couldn't risk losing their footing, and so they both had to endure attacks they would have rather dodged entirely. Soon their armour and blades were bloodied, and their breathing was harsh.

This fight could not last long.

Mercer had such strength in him; she deflected, ducked, twisted, she could believe his fury and his Dwemer blade could shatter her weapons, and she knew it could cut through her armour like it wasn't there.

She brought the fury of a betrayed friend, the martial skill bred into the bones of every Redguard, and the blood-lust that was all her own and she hurled it against his defences, and he laughed at her.

But his laughter never reached his cold green eyes.

The wounds he'd inflicted on her arms and leg burned and her side was stiffening. She wished he'd just die already. The Razor had found his skin a dozen times, but Dagon stayed his hand. It would never be that easy.

“Rathleen! The water's rising!” Karliah shouted.

She didn't dare look. She swung Chillrend, the Razor in her other hand striking under the attack and she bared her teeth in glee as he moved too slow and she felt it slide into his side, grating between his ribs. She drove the dagger in right to the hilt, angling it upwards, seeking his heart, if he had one.

“Bitch!” He caught the glass blade on his dagger and Rath flung herself back, staggering, scrabbling for purchase as she yanked the Razor out of Mercer's ribs. She'd left herself unprotected and he was still standing, somehow. His sword came down on her neck.

Her left foot slid from underneath her and pain bloomed as her knee landed hard on the stone, but it saved her life as Mercer's poisoned blade missed her throat and sliced through her upper left arm, blood welling from the wound and flowing freely down her arm.

She expected another strike, an execution, as she forced herself to stand, forced her hand to keep holding the sword.

Mercer coughed and shuddered, swaying slightly. His teeth were stained red and he grimaced in pain as he inhaled.

Her eyes widened in surprise as he tossed his dagger aside. She heard it ring on the stone briefly before falling into the water and she raised the Razor defensively, unable to lift Chillrend any longer, wary of a trick. He too kept his sword pointed at her, and with his free hand he produced the Skeleton Key.

“Is this what you want?” he asked. “Or is it revenge you're after?” She risked a moment's glance away from his eyes to the Key and back. “Well, decide.”

He flicked his wrist and the Key sailed into the air.

She didn't have time for conscious thought, let alone a rational decision. Rath turned to follow, bending her knees and leaping after the thin piece of metal as it arced out over the rising water. She didn't dare to look at Mercer, knowing if she lost sight of the Key in the murky water she'd never find it again.

She and the artefact hit the water at the same time. The surface was like a hammer to the chest, and Rath bit back a yelp of pain as her wounded arm was wrenched back. It barely seemed to respond to her commands and she sheathed the Razor and swum one handed, eyes open and fixed as the Key fell through the water ahead of her.

Her ears clicked and popped as they adjusted to the pressure, and then all she could hear was the water roaring endlessly as it fell from the ceiling to the surface somewhere above her.

Deeper. She forced the air out of her lungs, willing herself to sink faster, stroking with her one good arm. She remembered what she had learned in her youth diving in the river, competing with her brothers to see who might sit on the bottom the longest.

Oh, that she was in that sunlit water again.

The Key came to rest on an outcropping of rock, only an inch off falling to the floor below. She kicked harder, her hand outstretched, her chest aching with the deadly urge to draw breath. Just a bit further.

Her questing fingers closed around the Key, its jagged edges digging into her glove.

A skein of blood unwound in front of her eyes as she struggled to right herself, and start kicking upwards. She was numb in the cold water and had the idea she should be glad of it. Maybe she would just dissolve here, first her blood escaping, then her bones unknitting, her thoughts floating free, like bubbles.

What she'd thought was her vision darkening resolved itself into a shadow above her, a dark shape getting closer. She struck out for the surface, feeling her strength starting to ebb.

She opened her mouth to scream in pain as a hand clamped around her injured arm, and water rushed into her mouth and she choked, desperately fighting the urge to breath in. She looked up, and saw red hair, and she let Brynjolf pull her to the surface, trailing blood.

It seemed like an age before her head breached the surface. The water was now only a foot or so from the rocky ceiling. She tried to breathe, coughed, retched, and clung to Brynjolf's shoulders as she struggled to refill her lungs.

“Easy, Lass, easy.” He trod water, holding her up.

“Where's,” she gasped. “Karliah?”

A few moments later the Dunmer surfaced. “Do you have the Key?”

Rath could only nod, exhausted.

“Good. I've found a way out. Dive down and follow me.”

The last thing she wanted to do was dive again, but dive she did. Brynjolf did most of the swimming, one arm around her chest, pulling her with him as she feebly tried to match his stroke. Rath was feeling light-headed and sick, and the other two Nightingales dragged her out of the water into the side passage. Rath lay on the cold stone, her short cropped hair plastered against her skull, her limbs aching with cold and her throat raw. She continued to shiver as Karliah lifted her head up and coaxed her into drinking some potions while Brynjolf held the wound in her arm closed. She'd have a scar to remind her of this day. She'd have several.

Rath recovered slowly, and eventually she ran her hand over her face, wiping the water out of her eyes.

“Back with us?” Brynjolf asked.

“I think so.” She winced as she sat up. The potions might have knitted her back together, but she still hurt in dozens of places. She remembered how the battle had ended and her eyes widened. “Where's Mercer?” she asked.

“Down there, isn't he?” Brynjolf jerked a thumb at the water.

Rath shook her head. “He tossed the key. I had to choose. He's gone!” She bunched her hands into fists. “That bastard!”

“You made the right choice,” Karliah said.

Rath wasn't so sure. “He was wounded. Maybe badly; I Razored him right up to the hilt, but-”

Like her, he was a survivor. She couldn't believe he was dead until she was standing over his cold corpse.

“We have the Key. That is what's most important,' Karliah insisted. “It must be returned to the Twilight Sepulcher.”

“Hey, not so fast,” Brynjolf said with a grin. “The Key's ours legitimately- well, it's yours Lass, if anyone's. Nocturnal wouldn't mind us using it for a while, surely. Just a few weeks.”

“I can't see the harm, I suppose. Rathleen clearly needs rest anyway. The path within the Sepulcher is not straightforward.”

Rath was barely listening to them. As she absently flexed her injured arm, she thought back to the fight with Mercer. She was so certain this would be the end. He fought like a man prepared to die, so why had he changed his mind? Why had he offered her the choice?

“I made the wrong decision,” she said. “I should have killed him instead.”

Brynjolf offered her his hand and she took it, letting the Nord haul her to her feet.

“Don't worry, Lass. Even if he did survive, he knows what kind of welcome he'll get if he shows himself anywhere in Skyrim.” He sighed. “He's probably taken the guild gold and run for it. In two weeks time he'll be on a beach in Hammerfell or somewhere. I hope he drowns,” he added cheerfully.

Rath knew Brynjolf was trying to cheer her up, and she managed a smile to thank him for his efforts, but she couldn't share his sentiments.

She didn't want Mercer to drown. He deserved better. He deserved nothing less than to die at the end of her blade, and she'd thought he'd understood that.

She tucked the Skeleton Key into her belt and cast one glance back at the pool of water before following her fellow Nightingales back out into the fresh air. When they emerged into the swirling snow hours later, Rath found no sign of footprints.


	2. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how fast I'll be updating this given I have other projects that are a higher priority, but I'll try and aim for at least one chapter a week.

The trek back from Irkngthand was long and arduous, and for the last third of it, Brynjolf and Karliah had to load Rath onto a horse they'd stolen from outside an inn. Whatever Mercer put on his blades it did not heal easily, and she spent the first few days back in Riften huddled under the blankets on her bunk in the Cistern, alternately shivering and sweating with fever. Redguards were hardy but there were limits, and clearly Mercer had taken her heritage into account. Her arm and back itched under the bandages, and her misery was only lessened when her fever dreams saw fit to give her what reality had not; Mercer's corpse at her feet.

Eventually, her fever broke, and when she awoke again she was hungry for the first time in days. She wrapped herself in blanket and padded over to the fire to help herself to some stew.

Now her mind was clearer, Rath noticed how quiet the Cistern was, and she didn't think it was because people were mindful of her need to rest. Everyone kept their voices lowered and was wearing a slightly disbelieving look. Sometimes they stopped and stared at the guild vault, its doors gaping open still, their ruin displayed with an odd sort of defiant pride. There were no more secrets here.

The place felt empty. Rath had never known Mercer not to be there. Day or night, he'd either be scowling over the ledger – faking it, she knew now – or talking quietly to the others or even catching a couple of hours sleep in one of the bunks. His was a presence that had filled Cistern like the night fills the sky and his absence was glaring.

She kept expecting him to be there every time she glanced over, but it was Brynjolf who now sharpened the quills and kept the numbers.

She lay on her bunk holding up her battered journal, the candle on the bedside table casting a flickering light over the untidy scrawl of her own writing. She braced the book on a raised knee and scribbled over a couple of lines:

_Retrieve the Skeleton Key._

_Escape from Irkngthand._

Almost everything else on the page had already been crossed out firmly with ink or charcoal. Only one line remained untouched, right in the middle of the page.

_Slay Mercer Frey._

She couldn't cross it out until she knew for sure, and she'd never know. Rath bared her teeth and then tossed the journal down on the rumpled furs and blankets. She was sick of lying around, sick of sleeping, and most importantly she was sick of seeing Mercer's face every time she closed her eyes, his expression murderous but otherwise unreadable. She pulled on some clothes and, still barefoot, padded over to Brynjolf.

“Feeling better, Lass?'

She swung her arm, and twisted slightly, feeling the healing wounds pull at her, but it was a clean, pleasant pain as opposed to the puffy, stabbing heat of the last few days. “I'll live,” she said.

“There's no rush if you need more rest.”

“The last thing I want is more rest. I need to do something. Anything. How's the guild?”

“No worse than it was before, really. We just all now know there's no gold in the vault for an emergency. Don't fret, Lass. We've been getting by, getting better even; we'll pull through.”

Rath sighed and they both stared at the empty vault for a few moments.

“Have you given the Key a try yet?” Brynjolf asked.

“Good idea.”

She fetched the Key from her pile of belongings and Byrnjolf and Cynric followed her into the training room. Niruin was already in there, practising his archery like he did every day, but he put his bow away and joined them at the practice locks when he saw what was going on.

_Click ker-thunk._

“Well, that was an easy one,” Cynric said.

Rath merely nodded and moved to the next one. As more and more locks fell open other thieves began to join them, and soon the training room was full, and each _click ker-thunk_ was greeted by appreciative murmurs.

It was as if the tumblers just fell into place, like the Key had an attraction to the metal that Rath, for all her years of picking locks, couldn't explain. Eventually, she ran out of locks.

Then people spread out and started finding more; chests they'd lost the keys to, practice locks nearly rusted shut and forgotten, and even a lock Rune had once hacked out of a door with an axe when he couldn't get it open any other way. The Skeleton Key opened them all.

Vex folded her arms and leaned against the wall, “Well, it's no surprise that he was tempted by the vault. I just wonder what else he used the Key to steal over the years without telling us.”

“I think it's a shame you're supposed to just put it back,” Cynric ventured. “Seems like a waste to me.”

Silence fell as everyone looked at Karliah, who'd been sitting quietly off to one side, watching without comment.

“What do you expect me to say?” she asked. “Whatever you do, there is always a price.”

“What are you going to do, Lass?”

Rath turned the Key over in her hands.

“I'm going to see what else the Key can open, maybe take something nice.” She shrugged, “And then I'll give it back. The guild doesn't need it to prosper.”

It was an answer that seemed to satisfy everyone, including Karliah, and with the show over the thieves dispersed.

Rath stitched up her Nightingale armour and started packing supplies. She threw her journal in on top while Brynjolf watched her.

“Where exactly are you going?” he asked.

“I don't know exactly,” she said. “Not far. I'm fine. Thank you for your concern.”

He accepted her dismissal with a shrug and strolled off towards the Flagon. Rath left via the graveyard entrance.

Hours later, Rath slumped against the cold rocky wall of the tomb and with gritted teeth fought back tears of frustration.

“How?” she muttered. “Just fucking _how_?”

Behind her were the ruined traps and gutted remains of draugr that had been guarding Forelhost. In front of her was a puzzle door. It was just like the many others she had unlocked with claws, and much like the one she had seen Mercer open unaided.

She had the claw, but had no interest in using it.

The Key simply didn't work. It couldn't work in any way she could see. There were three holes. One key. Even using the Key in one and trying to pick the others didn't work, and Mercer clearly hadn't done anything as complicated as that.

She thought back to their time in Snow Veil Sanctum. She'd been full of adrenaline, and determined to track down whoever was attacking the guild. She'd been full of admiration also, for her guildmaster. Part of her later rage was fuelled by how easily she'd been swept along by his patter.

He'd said the doors had a weakness, but later she'd just assumed he'd used the Skeleton Key. But the Key didn't work. She gazed up at the door and ruffled her hair irritably. He'd made it look effortless, like all it took was a flick of the wrist.

And she'd believed it! Stupid!

“Focus, Rath. Think logically.” She had to calm down if she was going to work things out. She'd never actually tried to pick one of these locks before. Conventional wisdom was that they couldn't be picked, and usually she found a claw to open them anyway. She opened her pack, took our her journal and a stick of charcoal, and turned to a new page.

Her stomach was rumbling and her torch was burning low when she gave up. Her fingers were black with charcoal, her eyes were blurry, and she'd covered three pages in an attempt to map the lock's inner workings by feel alone. She'd broken seven picks in the door, and she still had no idea how it worked. The three parts of the lock were connected, shifting part of one changed the others, and attempting to track this movement was driving her mad.

She gave up for now, dusting off her hands and taking some strips of dried venison from her pack and chewing on them stoically. She'd tried the holes for the claw. She'd tried the puzzle mechanism around the lock. She couldn't think of what she'd overlooked.

She followed the venison with an apple and some water, and closed her eyes, letting them rest for a while. Her thoughts were not so easy to still; round and round they went.

It had to be the Key. There wasn't anything else. Had to be.

Once she'd rested for a while, she stood up, took a deep breath, and tried again with the Key, calmly, methodically, and rationally. At least at first.

“You useless piece of junk!” she snarled, hurling the Key across the room. It bounced off the wall and clattered to the stone floor.

“Heh.”

Burning frustration instantly evaporated into icy calm, and she drew her blades in one fluid movement, her breath stilled in her lungs, her feet braced. She wasn't even sure that she'd heard anything. She'd been working for hours and she had no idea what time it was. It was possible her mind was playing tricks.

But it had sounded like a cough of contemptuous amusement, one she'd heard before, and one she'd recognise anywhere.

Mercer.

She drifted forward, silent as a cloud shadow, sharp as spite, her eyes narrowed against the dim light as she focused on the darkness. Not so much as a creak of leather gave her away as she stepped forward. Exhale. Step forward. Inhale.

For the first time since she'd arrived in Skyrim, she realised just how far away she was, not just from Hammerfell, but from anywhere. No one knew where she was. No one would ever know if she died here.

Step forward.

Nothing had been disturbed. Even the dust and spider webs were still. She picked her way around the fallen draugr.

Still nothing. Utter silence shrouded the tomb. Methodically Rath prowled Forelhost's forgotten halls, leaving no alcove overlooked and no passageway disregarded at her back.

When she found herself back at the front door, she cautiously allowed herself to relax. Maybe she had just imagined it. She couldn't blame herself too much; she'd had Mercer on the brain lately.

Still quiet, but more swiftly now, she hurried back to where she'd left her things. She'd leave the door for another day; she clearly wasn't making progress, and she didn't care too much what was on the other side of it. 

Maybe Karliah would have some explanation-

A cool breeze, redolent with the unmistakable old meat scent of Nordic dead, washed over Rath's face. She shivered and stared dumbly for a few moments at the puzzle door, now gaping open, and the dim light filtering in from the passageway beyond.

“Shit!”

She dashed forward, leaping over a pressure plate just in case it had been reset, skidding to a halt just in front of the door and casting about frantically for the Key.

The Skeleton Key was lying where it had fallen. She regarded it carefully before touching it, but something told her it hadn't been moved. She snatched it up and stared at the open door, every nerve ending straining to try and discern whether or not she was alone. For a moment nothing moved, and then the breeze from the doorway ruffled the pages of her journal still lying open on the floor. As she stooped to pick it up, the Razor in her right hand still drawn, she caught a glimpse of a phrase right in the middle of the page.

_Slay Mercer Frey._


	3. Intrusion

Pride, and a measure of self-preservation made Rath go on. If Mercer was still here, and she refused to believe it was anyone else who'd opened the door for her, showing her back would be a red rag to a bull. He'd have the better of her; she'd thought she'd searched the place minutely, but he'd evaded her. So he wasn't just well-hidden, he was invisible, and until she figured out how to work a couple of magic tricks of her own she'd be at a fatal disadvantage.

She knew her best chance of getting out was to keep him entertained. He'd already chosen not to kill her when she'd been distracted by the door; Divines knew he'd had plenty of opportunity. But she lived, for now, at his whim.

And she hated him for it.

I will kill you, she promised him silently as she shouldered her pack and edged forward. I will gut you like a deer and hang your head on my wall, but that wasn't likely to happen today.

The fight that followed was long and brutal and made more so by the fact that Rath couldn't devote all her attention to the Dragon Priest practically filling the room with fire. She had to watch her back as well, as she leaped and ducked and paused to beat out the flames on her cloak. She needed a new cloak by the end and was lucky she didn't need a new head to match.

She didn't feel particularly proud about her victory; it had been ungraceful at best. She snatched whatever trinkets interested her and practically ran outside.

On her way back down to Riften, she chose to slog through the snow rather than stick to the roads for as long as she could. With a blanket of white around her, unbroken save for her own familiar footprints, she felt safer. Often she'd pause for breath and raise her head, trying to work out if she was being watched. She didn't know. She didn't even know if she'd imagined the whole thing; maybe she'd managed to break the door herself in her tinkering.

“Karliah.” Rath dropped into the chair opposite the Dunmer and let her pack slide to the floor. Before she'd even asked for it, Vekel put a mug of ale down in front of her.

“Rathleen, what happened to you?”

Rath downed half her drink before replying. “Draugr. That's not important. The Skeleton Key doesn't work on puzzle doors, does it?”

“I don't know. I've never held the Key myself.”

“Well, it doesn't.”

They sat in awkward silence. Rath didn't dislike Karliah, but they seemed to have almost nothing in common. She didn't feel like telling her what had happened in Forelhost. Karliah probably wouldn't gossip about it, but some part of Rath looked down on her.

Mercer killed Karliah's lover and exiled her from the guild, and yet she had spent years hiding and licking her wounds. Rath would never say it to her face, but she simply didn't _deserve_ to kill Mercer. No one did. No one but Rath herself.

So instead she nodded her thanks for her time and went into the Cistern to find Brynjolf.

“Ah, you're back. What happened to your cloak?”

“Tough fight in an old tomb. The Key doesn't unlock puzzle doors.” She scowled.

“Well, you can't have everything.” He frowned, “What's bothering you, Lass? I don't believe you care that much about the Key.”

“It's not the Key. It's Mercer. Mercer can unlock puzzle doors. I saw him do it with my own eyes. But if he wasn't using the Key, then how did he do it?”

Brynjolf smiled at her, “Rath, forget about the Key. Mercer was one of the best long before he acquired it. Don't get me wrong, you've got it in you to equal him, but he was thieving before you were even born. Maybe there is a way to open those doors, but you might have to accept that even you will have to take a few years to work it out.”

Rath sighed, “You think I can be better than him?”

“Aye. But first things first. You look exhausted. Go and eat, and get some sleep.”

When Brynjolf returned from the Riften markets some hours later, he found Rath standing in front of the vault, gazing into it with her arms outstretched from her sides as far as she could reach.

“Rath?”

Rath jumped and whirled around, the Razor halfway out of its sheath before she saw who it was and relaxed.

“What are you doing, Lass?”

Rath slammed the weapon back into its sheath and pointed at the vault. “Okay, there are two keyholes, one on each side of the vault. Two people are needed to open it. Even if Mercer used his own key on one, and the Skeleton Key on the other, he couldn't possibly reach far enough to turn them both at the same time. And if you do them separately.” She demonstrated with the Skeleton Key, unlocking first one side, then the other, but when she let go of the first, it just clicked back again. “It doesn't work.”

She spread her hands and shrugged hopelessly, “So what did he do?”

Brynjolf rubbed the bristles on his chin thoughtfully. “Are you saying he had help?”

Rath thought for a while. “No, actually. I don't think he did. Not so much because he wouldn't be able to find someone, but more because he's the sort of man to work alone. He'd never find an accomplice he could trust. Which doesn't get us anywhere.”

“Maybe you should let this go,” Brynjolf said, resting a hand on her shoulder and looking into her eyes. “He's gone.”

“You can't say he won't be back.”

“Maybe not, but there's nothing to gain by dwelling on this. The guild needs to move on. I don't want to leave you behind, either.”

Rath sighed. “Right.”

Brynjolf stepped away towards the desk. “We're currently short a guildmaster, for a start.”

“You mean you're not doing it? Aren't you second in command around here?”

“Yeah, and I like being second in command around here.”

“Well, there's Vex and Devlin-”

“Your name's coming up as well, Lass.”

“Me? But I'm basically new here.”

“Rath. Rathleen. The guildmaster doesn't have to be old, they just have to be the best.”

Rath shook her head. “If you pick me, you'll just be electing another Mercer.”

Brynjolf frowned and looked her up and down. “You're not Mercer.”

“No. Not yet. Once Mercer wasn't the man he is now, either.”

“Yes, well, unlike Mercer, you'd have us looking out for you.”

“Who looked out for Mercer?” she murmured. Gallus and Karliah; two lovers who failed to look outside themselves until it was too late.

“There's no rush, Lass. Think it over.”

As far as Rath was concerned, her mind was already made up, but she wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to move on from the subject. She stayed staring at the vault for a while longer, doodling idly on her journal, but she knew it was getting her nowhere. Everyone seemed to sense she didn't want conversation, and left her alone with her thoughts.

Maybe Brynjolf was right about the puzzle door, but Mercer opening the vault by himself looked physically impossible and magically unlikely. Maybe when she found him again, she’d let him live long enough to force him to tell her his technique.

She went to bed annoyed and undecided as to what she’d do the next day.

She woke up some time later, viscerally certain that something was deeply wrong. She gave no sign she was awake, and instead listened, wondering what had woken her up. The soft snoring of her fellow thieves, the drip of water into the pool in the centre of the Cistern, the occasional pop of wood as the fires burned low – nothing sounded out of the ordinary. It had to be the early hours of the morning; the only time the Cistern really got quiet.

She opened her eyes. Everything was in its place. Her belt hung over the end of her bed, her weapons within easy reach. Her pack was on the floor near her bunk, just as she'd left it. Mercer was leaning against his desk, arms folded, quietly watching over the Cistern and its compliment of sleeping thieves. It had always struck her as an oddly affectionate and private gesture, and she’d only caught him at it once or twice in the depths of the night at times like this when she'd woken up for no reason. It always made her feel safe.

Wait. _Mercer._

Every muscle tensed and every nerve ending jolted to alertness, as the last cobwebs of sleep were blown from her mind by sheer fear. Eyes wide open now, her heart pounding, she slowly eased a hand out from under the blankets, reaching up for the hilt of the Razor that hung next to her head.

“Very good.” Mercer’s growling drawl travelled across the space effortlessly, and sent a shiver down her spine. “I only just got here.”

She’d lost the element of surprise, if she’d ever had it in the first place, and she flung herself out of bed, snatching her weapons, and landed in a low crouch. The cold air raised goosebumps on her bare skin; she was only in her chest bindings and a pair of linen shorts. Mercer was wearing his armour. Another unfair fight, but that seemed to be the way he liked them.

Only his head moved to track her movement, his arms were still crossed across his chest.

Rath took a deep breath, preparing to raise hell.

“You might want to rethink that.” Mercer shifted his weight onto his feet, and drew his weapons. “The first one that comes to your aid will meet my blade. And how well do you think that will go for them? None of them are any match for you, and you are no match for me.”

“We’ll see about that.” But she took his point, and kept her voice to a whisper.

All around the edge of the Cistern, thieves were sleeping. Rune with his head under his pillow, Cynric occasionally muttering in his dreams, and Sapphire curled up under a mound of blankets. There were all still alive, as far as she could tell, and all of them would die if Mercer decided to kill them.

Why was he even here? How dare he. And how stupid they’d been to assume he wouldn’t be back, just because there was nothing left to steal.

“So, have they picked a successor yet? It should be you, you know. If you live long enough to-”

Rath wasn't listening, she was running, fast and silent, the stone floor under her feet cold and her blood hot. She raised Chillrend above her head, putting all her wiry strength into attempting to take Mercer’s head off his shoulders. He jumped backwards rather than deflect her blade with his own, and put himself out of reach of the Razor. Rath followed, pressing him back, her face a mask of grim determination.

She didn’t care what he had to say, or why he'd come back. All she knew was that he was now within reach of her blades, and that was all that mattered.

 


	4. Exile

Mercer didn't move like someone who'd taken a blade between the ribs only a handful of days ago, much to Rath's disappointment. Even his armour had been patched up.

He seemed content to let it be her that woke anyone up, ducking and evading rather than clashing her weapons with his own.

So they fought in near silence. The shuffling of feet, the faint sigh as edged weapons sliced at the air, and their own breathing were the only sounds. To an outside observer their fight might appear choreographed; a dance rather than a combat. Only their momentum gave them away, the power behind their swings evident when they tried to pull up.

Rath had warmed up now, and she circled around Mercer, trying to force him back towards the water.

“Aren't you getting tired of this?” Mercer growled and rolled under her blade away from the pool.

“Are you offering to stand still?” Rath asked. Their conversation wouldn't wake anyone up; to sleep in the Cistern you had to learn to sleep more than quiet talking.

“No, but you're holding back and that's boring.”

“You came here to be entertained?”

“I came here to finish what you started.” He looked, in the low light of the dying fires, genuinely angry. The lines at the corners of his mouth were deep, and she could see his teeth glint as he drew his lips back to speak.

Why was he so angry?

Rath's eyes widened and a smile stole across her face. “You're jealous.”

“What?” He darted in, blades flashing, but she backed off to let him flail, undeterred from making her deductions.

“You're mad because I went after the Key instead of you.” Always had to be first priority, and got in a snit when he wasn't.

“I didn't come here to listen to your theories,” he sneered. “I came here to spill some blood, and it doesn't have to be yours.”

He turned away from her, towards the bunks, and strode over to Cynric's bunk.

Rath didn't shout a warning. That wouldn't do any good; even if he woke up he'd be too slow to save himself. Instead she ran, her gaze fixed on Mercer's back, knowing from his stance he couldn't turn his blades on her easily.

He didn't have to.

He waited until the last moment and then spun, driving the pommel of his sword into her midsection with a triumphant smile.

“I thought you were smarter than that,” Mercer said, as Rath gasped for breath. She had no armour on and it felt like he'd bruised right through her abdomen to her spine.

She dived out of his way, or tried to, and his boot landed against her ribs. She rolled with it, absorbing the blow as best she could, but Mercer wasn't going to give her a chance to recover. As soon as she was on her back he drove the point of his sword down through her left shoulder, pinning her like a butterfly.

He stomped on her left hand, crushing Chillrend out of her fingers as she wheezed painfully, trying to breathe again. He kicked the glass blade away while staying out of reach of the Razor.

Every time she moved, either trying to get free or attack him with the Razor, Mercer pushed down on his blade, digging it deeper into the joint. A thin whine escaped her lips, blood running red down her shoulder, staining her chest bindings and dripping onto the floor.

“Again you are a disappointment,” Mercer said. “So much promise, so easily undone by trifles.”

Maybe the Key was a trifle.

“My friends are not trifles,” she gritted out, glaring up into his face.

“Oh yes, honour among thieves. Still clinging to that little fantasy?” He looked around the Cistern with an expression Rath didn't like. “You know what would make me take my sword out of your shoulder? Having to defend myself from someone else. You might even get a clear shot with that dagger of yours.”

He grinned at her, and twisted his sword.

“Ngh!” Rath gritted her teeth, blinking away tears of pain, but she refused to shout.

“C'mon, Rath. What are you trying to prove?” He dug down with his blade, and she felt the tip grate against bone. She could barely breathe.

What was she trying to prove? That she would _not_ continue to be so predictable.

She took a deep breath, and mustered all her hate. She needed it as she flexed her back, digging her feet in underneath her, and pushed herself up against Mercer's blade. It sliced past the bone, tearing into the meat of her shoulder, and she screamed in pain, but the Razor- he was in reach.

Rath jammed Dagon's blade into Mercer's thigh with all of her fury and strength. And she kept yelling.

“It's Mercer! Mercer!”

Mercer stumbled back, wrenching his blade free. He glared at her, but he looked rather amused too, as blood oozed down his leg.

“Spoil my fun, why don't you? Have it your way.”

He disappeared again, and Rath watched as spots of blood became a bloody footprint, that left a track up to the graveyard entrance. She followed at a safe distance, watching until the fake grave had closed above the trapdoor.

She cradled her ruined hand, and turned back to the Cistern.

Everyone was still sleeping.

Seized by a sudden fear she hurried over to Sapphire's bunk and shook her shoulder. If Mercer had got to them first-

“Uh? Rath. Is your fever back again?” Sapphire poked her head out from under the blankets, blinking sleepily.

“Didn't you hear me shouting?”

“That's why I asked. Were having another nightmare?”

“Are you saying I've been shouting about Mercer in my sleep?”

“Until your fever broke, every night. Are you okay? Is that blood?”

“Yes, but I'm fine. Go back to sleep.”

Sapphire apparently needed no further invitation. Rath walked back to her bunk, and searched one-handed for some healing potions. She knew in an abstract sense that she should be embarrassed by her shouting, or at very least amused that everyone could now sleep through it, but she was more concerned about Mercer.

He'd come back for her.

They agreed on one point; they had unfinished business with each other. But she needed time to think, and to plan. Mercer wasn't merely going to assassinate her; he'd had the chance to do that. He wanted to beat her. Have her mewling on the floor at the end of his blade, to die at his whim.

And that could be his downfall, because she'd gut him without hesitation should the opportunity arise, no words, no gloating, no pain. He mightn't ever see her coming.

Wasn't he lucky, to have a nemesis like her?

Her wounds healed as best they could through magic. They'd twinge and ache for a while, but here in the Cistern she had access to cure poison potions, and she didn't need any time in bed to recover. 

Instead she packed everything she thought might come in handy, slithered into her Nightingale armour, and took one last look around. She had no plans to come back here until she was absolutely certain Mercer was dead. Her mere presence was putting everyone else in danger, and Mercer could use the other thieves too easily against her.

She walked out through the Ragged Flagon, which never closed. Even if Vekel wasn't there, somehow he always managed to keep track of everyone's tabs.

Brynjolf was the only customer, counting out his night's takings on one of the tables, and he looked her up and down.

“Going somewhere?”

“I'm going to return the Key,” she said, consciously deciding to keep most of the truth to herself. “It's not as useful as I'd hoped, and it's better off back where it belongs. Karliah showed me where to go on my map. It's going to be quite a long trip.”

Almost the entire length of Skyrim, in fact, but that suited Rath. It gave her a reason for a long absence, and it gave her somewhere to aim for, rather than just riding out aimlessly.

“Hmm.” Brynjolf eyed her thoughtfully. “Are you sure that's all, Lass?”

“I can't promise I won't get sidetracked.” She grinned at him, hopefully in a cheerful and light-hearted manner. She didn't think Brynjolf was entirely fooled; he could read her like a book, sometimes.

But he didn't press the point. 

“Then we'll see you when you get back. Take care, Rath.”

“Yes, Boss.” She winked at him and strolled out.

She didn't leave Riften immediately. The first light of dawn was starting to streak the eastern sky when she wove her way through the familiar back alleys of Riften towards Riftweald Manor, Mercer's old house.

She'd been in a hurry when she'd last visited, but now she thought it might be worth taking another look around. There was even an outside chance he'd be home; he was in the area after all.

The back of the house was just as she'd left it, and the door was unlocked. Inside she was greeted by the scent of the corpses she'd left last time she came through. If it had been Hammerfell it would have been unbearable, but Skyrim afforded the Nords the dubious luxury of leaving their dead out to dry in the cold without causing a plague. It didn't surprise her, however, that their tombs were so restless and it depressed her to think it would probably be her fate as well. The Imperials had offered to send her body home after execution, but everyone else would assume they were doing her an honour if she was interred here.

Best not to think about it, hold her breath, and move on. She didn't plan to die any time soon.

The upper part of the house looked totally unlived in, which given Mercer rarely left the Cistern made a fair amount of sense. Nevertheless, she circled the well-appointed rooms knocking quietly on walls looking for secret panels, and peering under rugs.

The only item that didn't look like it came with the house was the statue of Dibella on a shelf. Perhaps he'd stolen it from somewhere; he'd never struck her as religious – he'd snubbed Nocturnal after all, which wasn't the act of a pious man. Maybe he just liked staring at her tits.

The house was empty of anything useful, so Rath tried the basement.

The passages leading to Mercer's secret office had been lined with traps, and it didn't look like anyone had been through to reset them but she went cautiously, just in case.

This was Mercer's office, where he planned his betrayals. It wasn't large, or well-furnished. Just a simple wooden chair and desk. Rath stood there for a few moments, and then sat at the desk. The plans and maps had gone. There was book, and she picked it up.

_The Lusty Argonian Maid_.

Rath dropped the book like it was hot, and forced her mind's eye to look _away_ from that surprisingly vivid mental image. What did he _do_ down here? Well, besides the obvious. She propped her elbows on the desk and sighed. There wasn't even a view, just a blank stone wall.

Rath leaned forward and squinted. There was something odd about the wall. She lit a torch from her pack and held it closer. She hadn't imagined it. The wall was covered in neat hash marks in groups of five.

Hundreds of them.

Days? Months? Years?

This didn't feel like a private space any more, not a hideaway. It felt like a prison cell. She wondered if this was the key to Mercer's crimes; he was just that bored.


	5. Free Fall

Rath sat at Mercer’s desk for some time. It was so quiet down here it was almost disorienting. Eventually she found herself tapping one finger on the wooden table just to reassure herself that her ears were still working.

She thought she’d known Mercer Frey. No one could have mistaken him for a nice man; he was competent, contemptuous, arrogant, and he had a mean sense of humour. No one had seen his betrayal coming, but there was no reason to be surprised after the fact. No one stood around shaking their heads and wondering how he had it in him.

But sitting down here in the silence of this tiny stone cell, Rath had to wonder what else there was to Mercer. What sort of man could stand sitting here so long he’d started carving marks on the walls? The more she looked at them, the more oppressed she felt.

Mercer had needed to get out more.

And she needed to get out now. 

Suddenly she was finding it hard to breathe, and her mind filled with images of slow poison traps and blocked air vents and she stood up so fast the chair nearly fell over. Forcing herself not to break into a run, she strode back the way she came, up through Mercer’s house, past Dibella and her tits, past the dead guards, and out onto the back balcony and into the fresh morning air.

There were still a few stars gleaming in the pale pre-dawn skies, and the air was as cold and sharp as a blade. Rath’s eyes watered at the sudden change of temperature. It wasn’t enough to get out of Riftweald Manor, or even Riften itself. She felt Mercer’s presence; even if he wasn’t actively watching her at that moment, he’d followed her back from the tomb and she had no reason to doubt he’d continue to do so.

She needed to disappear. Luckily, she had all of Skyrim to lose herself in, and the wilderness called to her as the antidote to Mercer’s little room.

A skilled thief knows that it is often faster to purchase a needed item rather than wait for an opportunity to steal it. Money can be had anywhere, after all. So Rath wandered the Riften markets, just as the first stalls were opening and the earliest farmers arriving with fresh produce. She wove her way around wagons and the shaggy cows and horses who pulled them.

She purchased a new cloak and some supplies before heading outside the town walls.

Now was the time for stealing. The best time of day to acquire horses was in the morning. They were fresh, for one thing, the stable hands were sleepy, and legitimate owners were retrieving their animals to start the day’s travel, which meant lots of confusion, lots of moving animals, and if you acted like you had every reason to legitimately be in the saddle, it was often possible to ride off in a leisurely manner.

Rath didn’t ride off in a leisurely manner. As soon as the chestnut mare had her hooves on the highway, the thief dug her heels in and set off a canter. She had no intention of keeping the horse, or sticking to the road, for long, so she didn’t need to pace the horse. She just wanted to put some distance between herself and Mercer before she struck out on foot. He’d have to acquire a horse himself to keep up and she rode with one eye on the path behind her.

The roads were clear of any suspicious travellers. Only the couriers rode as fast as she did, and as the sun rose over the Rift, she passed farmers and merchants and the odd Stormcloak patrol. War hadn’t broken out yet, it seemed. Rath kept her nose out of the whole business; it wasn’t any of her concern one way or another.

Her parents would probably be horrified by her attitude. Or perhaps relieved; war had claimed the lives of at least one of her brothers by the time she’d left to seek her own fortune. As the miles flew by, she wondered how her family was doing. She sent money back, of course, but kept the details of how she’d earned it to herself.

By mid morning the mare was exhausted and sweat streaked her flanks, so Rath relented and slowed her to a walk, cooling her down before letting her drink from the river. Checking that the road in both directions was deserted, Rath twitched the reigns and guided the mare off the road entirely, striking out in a north-easterly direction.

She was leaving the half-hearted scrub and the rocky flats of the Rift behind, heading up through the pine forests towards the mountains. She planned to go around them, and then down through the Whiterun plains. But all in good time. She’d put some distance between her and Riften, now it was time to put some obstacles as well.

As soon as the country grew too steep she let the horse go and continued on foot. She stopped for lunch in the shade of a large pine, and ate cold meat and tomato sandwiches she made on the spot from her supplies. She didn’t light a fire, in case the smoke gave her away. She rested for a little while, but couldn’t relax. She needed to keep moving.

The sun was high in the sky, and soon she was obliged to take off her cloak and put it in her pack. She scrambled up rocky slopes and wound her way through shallow gorges. She preferred to avoid the high parts; they were too exposed. When she had to travel in sight of the road, she kept her head down.

Occasionally a rabbit bounded out of her path, or her presence would disturb some birds in the trees, but she saw no other living soul the entire day.

By the time evening fell, and she’d unpacked her cloak again, she was above Darkwater Pass. It seemed as good a place as any to stop, and she found a sheltered, hidden spot, and once again decided against lighting a fire. It was cold, but bearable.

The night passed uneventfully, and Rath was obliged to rejoin the road to cross over the river. She decided to pay a brief visit to Darkwater Crossing, since she was in the area. If Mercer had been on the road Derkeethus might have noticed, and she knew she could rely on him to keep his mouth shut if need be.

Despite the early hour, Darkwater Crossing was already alive with activity, and Rath could tell, even as she approached, that something was terribly wrong. The guards, normally bored with their quiet posting, were marching as if Ulfric was expected to do an inspection at any moment. She caught sight of Derkeethus filling a pail of water at the river and she whistled sharply to get his attention. When he saw who it was he hurried over, and Rath waited for him to approach.

“Rathleen!”

“Greetings, Deek. What’s the occasion?”

The Argonian’s toothy expression of friendliness feel into one of melancholy. “It's horrible. Sondas is dead.”

“What? What happened?” Rath feigned concern while she wracked her brains trying to remember who Sondas was. Oh yes, the Dunmer.

“We woke up this morning and he was dead! In his bedroll. Someone killed him”

“Are you sure?”

“They stabbed him. Bang. Right through the neck. I feel responsible.” He bowed his head.

“Deek, why? It’s not your fault.”

“Since I you rescued me, I have nightmares. I don’t sleep well. I wake up. I swim in the stream at night to calm down. I did this last night, but I saw nothing. I heard nothing. How could I have missed this?” He looked like he was about to cry. Rath didn’t even know Argonians could.

“Nothing at all, huh?” Rath frowned. “Some people are pretty quiet.”

“Could you help us find who did this?” He looked at her pleadingly.

Rath shook her head. “I already have an idea who it might have been. And hanging around here would only put you in more danger. I have to go. Right now. You didn’t see me. I was never here, you get me, Deek?”

The Argonian nodded, looking deeply worried. “Are you in trouble, Rathleen?”

Rath grinned, and it wasn’t a happy grin. “More than you can imagine.”

She plunged back into the forest, heading north. She set off at a jog, ignoring the small animals scampering out of her way, hopping over small streams and obstacles, sliding down slopes, and getting her hands mucky clambering up the other side. She was sure Mercer hadn’t seen her.

But he’d guessed where she’d gone anyway and had arranged a surprise for her. She could only be grateful he hadn’t decided to kill Derkeethus. She couldn’t believe how fast he’d moved. He must have caught her up and passed her while she was asleep. She was glad she’d resisted the temptation to stay at Darkwater Crossing and camped out instead.

Unfortunately, unless she changed her plans and headed north towards Winterhold or west to Windhelm, Mercer would know her immediate destination by sheer process of elimination. There was a reason why bandits were forever having to be cleared out of Valtheim Towers; they were a bottleneck. Everyone who wanted to avoid Helgen on their way east had to pass through that narrow gorge.

But they didn’t have to pass on the road side. Rath forded the river and started climbing the northern side of the gorge. She’d probably run into the latest crop of bandits at some point, but she was meaner than they were, and not concerned.

It was a hard climb. Despite her armour and her gloves, her hands and knees were soon torn and blistered and her arms ached. She felt the weight of every item she had in her pack. Eventually, however, Valtheim Towers was on the skyline. She lay flat in the grass for a while, catching her breath and observing carefully.

There were people there. She could seem moving about. She had to admit, the last few days had been so frustrating, she was looking forward to taking out some of her anger on some worthless opponents.

She managed to get close enough to one of their scouts to slit the Bosmer’s throat before she managed to get out of her chair, but her gurgling cry alerted the other bandits. Rath grinned, swinging her blades easily, and strolling forward.

“Come on then,” she invited.

They turned and ran. Well, that was a new strategy, and possibly the most sensible one she’d seen yet from any bandits.

“She’s here!” they shouted. “She’s here!”

A few arrows were launched in her direction, but no one came up to engage. They fell back as she approached the towers, and as she got closer she could see why.

They had a new boss. 

Waiting for her in the middle of the bridge high over the gorge, Mercer held his blades down by his sides. She'd never seen him in sunlight before; his hair gleamed silver and his armour was a shadow. Rath looked up at the bandits crowding up on the towers and peering over the edge in anticipation of a show. The arrows had ceased. The way to Mercer was clear.

He had to have a dramatic scene, and an audience. He probably would have preferred Karliah and Brynjolf, but these bandits would do in their place.

Fine then.

Rath didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward onto the bridge, and stopped about ten feet away from Mercer.

“Why’d you kill Sondas?” Rath asked.

“Who? Oh, the Dunmer” He smiled at her. “I had to let you know I hadn’t forgotten about you.”

“So this is how it ends?” she asked, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Really?” She couldn’t contain herself any longer. She threw her head back and laughed. Her laughter rang across the gorge, bubbling out of her almost uncontrollably. Mercer frowned, but didn't wait for an explanation, instead raised his blades, darting in towards her.

Rath didn't even raise her weapons, but her laugher dropped like a mask.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” she growled. “ _FUS RO DAH!”_


	6. Sanctuary

He didn't stand a chance against the power of a Shout. She blew him off his feet like a leaf in the wind, and she got the satisfaction of watching him tumble out into empty space, plummeting down to the gorge below, his blades still in his hands.

He shouted something, and she strained to hear, but his words were lost. She didn't even hear a splash, just the wind whistling past her ears as it was funnelled up from the plains by the gorge.

Rath looked up at the towers, first one, then the other. That had felt so very, very good. She beamed.

“So who else wants some?” she bellowed.

She was obliged to duck as an arrow whistled past her head.

“Seriously?” She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, her smiled undimmed. “Okay.” She launched herself in the direction of the closest tower, arrows pinging off the rocks around her. The bandits had reverted to their usual behaviour, and ran out to meet her. They didn't put their backs to the gorge, however.

It didn't matter. Her blades sang, as she whirled and danced, blood splattering her arms and her face. She felt unstoppable. She was unstoppable.

Do not fuck with the Dragonborn.

She left corpses at the base of the tower, and bounded up the stairs as fleet as a sabre-cat. Her strength felt limitless. When the odd blow found its mark, she felt no pain, high on victory and revenge.

She left quite a mess for the next crop of bandits to clean up. She sifted the corpses' belongings for any gold and other small valuables before skidding down the slope to the river at the bottom of the gorge.

She washed off the blood, and strolled beside the water, squinting against the sunlight glittering off the surface.

She couldn't find a corpse.

She frowned and marched up and down the riverbank, peering into the shadowed parts. Had he been washed downstream? Or landed on the opposite side? Had a scavenger already dragged him off?

Eventually, she gave up.

No one could have survived that drop. _She_ couldn't have survived that drop. It was at least a hundred feet to the water. She'd seen him fall. There was just no way. For all his skill, Mercer was just a man, and he died like any other.

Nevertheless, her good mood was ebbing away.

She'd been planning on spending another night under the stars, but she decided to press on to Whiterun instead. Whiterun was the trading hub of Skyrim, and she wanted to lose herself in the hundreds of people that passed through its gates every day.

It was dark by the time she arrived, and the skies were clouding over. The markets and shops were closing for the day, but the inns threw great patches of light onto the streets, and farmers and traders lingered to spend some of their hard-earned coin on mead and song.

Rath was technically Thane here, but she kept her hood up and her head down, and steered clear of her usual haunt; the Bannered Mare. She didn't want to be recognised tonight.

The Drunken Huntsman was just as warm, and no more expensive. More popular with non-Nords too, and Rath rubbed shoulders with elves and even the odd Redguard as she elbowed her way to the bar.

Everyone was talking about the war. That was all anyone ever talked about in Skyrim lately.

Rath ordered something to eat and some wine. A tipsy Nord woman with red hair tried valiantly to chat her up. Rath only listened to her flattery with half an ear, her eyes rarely straying from the doorway for more than a few seconds at a time.

He was dead, she told herself. Dead and broken at the bottom of a gorge. She had trouble believing it.

“Face it,” she muttered to herself, when she'd finally escaped the Nord and headed upstairs to her room. “You're going to miss the old bastard, that's all. He was so much fun to kill, it was always going to be a let-down.”

She locked the door and then propped her pack against it. She knew from long experience how easy inn doors were to pick. She yawned and rolled her shoulders; she was healing well.

Despite the chill, she threw open the window and leaned out. It had started to rain, and the smell of damp wood and stone rose from the city. She had a view of the alleyway below, which wasn't very exciting, and the rooftops of the Market District, which to her thief's eye was. Faint reflected light from the city and the clouds above outlined the buildings in the slick gleam of rain, making them look faintly luminous.

The sloping roofs would be treacherous. The downpipes and gutters would be gurgling and overflowing, masking the sound of footsteps and creak of windows being eased open. People would feel safe in the rain, protected. Surely the thieves would be in bed, they'd tell themselves.

She smiled and held her hand out to the rain for a few moments.

The arrow caught her cheekbone as she flung herself out of the way. It wasn't a concious dodge; some part of her mind had registered the oncoming missile and if it hadn't the arrow would have gone right through her forehead. As it was, it struck bone, and tore through the skin leaving a long, jagged gash just below her eye. Rath flung herself flat on the floor under the windowsill.

“I knew it,” she muttered through her teeth. It had been too easy. She reached up towards the lamp, and another arrow thudded past her hand into the wall behind her. The door was directly across from the window. She'd be an easy target on her way out. She could close the window, but the shutters were pulled back and she'd have to stand up and reach out.

She moved sideways, against the wall, and picked up an apple from the bowl on the side table. She flung it at the lamp and it fell over onto the floor, spilling wax as it did so. The room went dark.

Rath didn't wait for her eyes or Mercer's to adjust. She charged the door, the lock snapping as it burst open. An arrow struck the door as it swung open, missing her side. Sticky with blood she rolled sideways, grabbed her pack and heaved herself upright.

Another arrow hit the door to the room opposite.

It opened.

“I'm trying to get some sl-”

As last words went, they weren't very good. Rath stared for a few moments at Nazeem's freshly minted corpse. He died as he had lived; with a sneer on his face.

Then she turned and ran.

People got out of her way as she hurried downstairs, adjusting her pack as she did so, once she arrived in the bar area, however, there was barely room to move. Grimly she elbowed people aside, her gaze fixed on the front door.

“By the Nine, what happened- is that blood?”

Rath found herself looking into the worried eyes of her admirer. Her appearance seemed to have sobered the other woman up considerably.

“The Dark Brotherhood's after me,” Rath lied urgently. “I need to get out.”

The Nord set her jaw and nodded. “Follow me.”

Rath could say one thing for Nords, they were excellent in a crisis. The woman took her hand and led her through the crowd towards the bar. She smiled sweetly at the barman and he didn't object when she led her past the bar into the back room.

“Sorry, sorry.” They ducked out of the way of barmaids carrying plates of food as they made their way through to the kitchens. “Wait here,” she said.

Rath took the chance to wash the blood off her face and down a healing potion.

“I'm sorry, but this is going to smell,” the woman returned, with a rotund Imperial in tow. “They take out the vegetable scraps in the early hours of the morning. They go back to the farms to enrich the soil. You can hide in the cart. I'll keep an eye out and make sure no one interferes until you're gone.”

Rath thought for a few moments and nodded.

“It could be worse.”

The three of them left the kitchens via a store room to an unloading area. Two shaggy bullocks were hitched to a cart piled high with potato peelings and carrot ends. Rath shrugged and tossed her pack up on the mess.

“What's your name?” she asked the woman.

“Ah, Ysolda.” She looked startled to be asked.

“Well, Ysolda, I owe you,” Rath said.

“No, really, it's fine-”

Rath cut her off by pressing her lips briefly and firmly against Ysolda's. Girls weren't normally her thing, but she didn't like leaving debts unpaid if she could help it, and she kind of liked plucky civilians.

“Stay out of dark corners for a while,” Rath advised.

“Oh-okay.” Ysolda smiled at her. “Good luck.”

Rath climbed up onto the cart and nestled down among the vegetable scraps.

“We won't be leaving for a little while,” the Imperial said, once he'd managed to stop staring at Ysolda.

“That's fine,” Rath said. It actually wasn't too bad. It smelled sort of vegetable-ly, but the food wasn't rotting, and it was surprisingly comfortable. After spending some time being utterly ignored and having no further attempts made on her life, Rath drifted off into a light sleep.

She awoke in the sunlight, as the cart rumbled out of Whiterun's gates. Cautiously she raised her head and blinked at the dust and noise of the main road. An elven gentleman on a horse looked at her curiously for a few moments before moving on. He must have assumed she was drunkard.

Rath kept her head down until they were away from the main road, and slowly making their way through the farmland of the Whiterun plains. Cabbages and potatoes as far as the eye could see.

Rath thanked the driver and bid him farewell before dropping off the back of the cart and striking out once more on foot.

She avoided towns and farms, and spent the night on the move, listening to the wolves howl in the forest. She didn't dare stop. Wherever she went, it seemed that Mercer was waiting for her.

She could think of only one place that might be safe, a fortress that even he could not breach, and so she headed south without stopping. She was exhausted by the time her feet carried her to the dark door just off from the small, round pool in Falkreath's forest.

_What is the music of life?_

“Silence, my brother,” Rath muttered, and the door opened.

Only when it was firmly shut behind her did she relax. She dragged her pack and her weary feet into the Sanctuary, the familiar sounds of the Family filtering up from below.

“There you are.” Rath could hear the smile in Astrid's voice as she looked up from her desk. “Haven't seen you for a while- my dear, what's wrong?” She stood and walked over to Rath, taking in the new scar on her cheek, and the sheer exhaustion in her face and posture.

“I failed to kill someone. No,” she held up her hand, “Not a contract. But now I'm paying the price.”

“You poor thing. Come down and have something to eat. I'm sure we can work this out together.”

Rath smiled, relieved to be reminded that the Brotherhood's support was unconditional. She dropped her pack off near the bed she usually slept in, and went to the dining room. Astrid and Nazir were waiting for her, as was a hot meal.

Rath slumped in a chair.

“Eat first,” Astrid said. “Take your time.”

Rath picked up a fork. “Well,” she began. “I'm a member of the Thieves Guild.”


	7. Oration

“Well,” Astrid said. “I really do need to keep up with the Thieves Guild gossip a bit better. I should see how Devlin’s doing some time.”

“This Mercer Frey does not sound like an ordinary thief,” Nazir mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But I doubt he is a match for the Brotherhood.”

“Nevertheless, someone who got the better of our Rath is someone worth respecting,” Astrid said.

Rath herself was quite happy to let them talk. She was exhausted, and it was such a relief to share her burden with people who understood what it was like when death got personal. She licked her finger and picked crumbs off her plate while Astrid and Nazir discussed her story.

“I think he likes you, my dear,” Astrid said, jerking Rath out of her reverie.

“What? He tried to shoot me in the face after I threw him off a cliff,” she protested.

“Ah yes,” Astrid smiled. “It takes me back to the days when Arnbjorn and I were courting. There wasn’t a hold in Skyrim that was safe.”

Rath had always admired how Astrid had managed to combine her professional and personal lives but she did have a tendency to assume everyone else was set on doing the same. Rath exchanged a glance with Nazir. He didn’t look entirely convinced either.

“Well,” Rath pushed her plate aside. “I don’t care. The only way I want him is dead.” She yawned. 

“Get some rest,” Nazir suggested. “We can work out a plan tomorrow.”

Rath’s sleep was uninterrupted and deep. Secure that the black door had no lock at all, let alone one that could be picked, she slept long. Time had little meaning in the sanctuary; natural light was not very welcome.

By the time she woke up her story had done the rounds and as always everyone had an opinion. Normally Brotherhood assassins worked alone, but this was self-defence, rather than an ordinary assassination, and Astrid said Rath was welcome to whatever resources and help she needed.

Families look after each other.

“It’s obvious that you have to use yourself as bait,” Veezara said. “Frey has abandoned the rest of his life. His house is empty, his friends turned against him. You won’t find him by lying in wait; he has nothing else he seems to want.”

“Fire, that’s always a good solution,” Festus added. “He can dodge blades, but I’d like to see him survive a few dozen well-placed spells. He’s a wanted fugitive; you probably wouldn’t even get in trouble for it, depending on how many bystanders were caught up in the ensuing inferno.”

“Very helpful,” Rath said.

“I wonder how he managed to get through those doors.” Babette, as always, had a useful perspective. Rath wondered if by focusing on the locks she’d somehow missed a more fundamental question.

“The question is, where you should place your bait. Somewhere he has to find you,” Veezara said.

“Finding me is not a problem,” Rath said. “He managed to keep a close eye on where I was going in the wilderness, and when somehow worked out where I was staying in Whiterun, including which room, within the space of a few hours. And that was after I tossed him down a gorge.”

“He missed his true calling,” Astrid said. “Think of the assassin he would have made.”

“This man has no sense of family,” Babette said. “As skilled as he is, he would have become a liability sooner or later.”

There were sage nods at this. They were sitting around the dining table, the remains of whatever meal it had been time for in front of them. Astrid hadn’t called a meeting, but Rath’s situation was so unusual that no one wanted to be left out of the discussion.

“Speaking of liabilities,” Astrid said through her teeth.

They could all hear the sound of capering feet as Cicero approached, singing loudly.

“Cicero knows! Cicero can smell! Wake up, ring bells! To your feet, children of Sithis. Ooh.” He paused at the top of the stairs, delighted to be the centre of attention. “You’re all here. How lucky.”

“What is it now? Can’t you see we’re busy?” Astrid asked.

“Ohh you’ll want to know this, yes. Cicero hears the door! Mother does not speak, but the door does! To anyone who will listen. But only Cicero, ears as sharp as fox’s teeth, listens.” He held one hand up to his ear dramatically, and despite her irritation, Rath found herself straining to hear.

“I don’t hear anything,” Arnbjorn said gruffly.

“No? Cicero should clean your ears. Although, it’s quiet now. Earlier- ergh!” Cicero choked off mid-sentence.

A bloodied dwemer blade protruded from his chest, and he stared at it, puzzled, a strange smile on his face.

“He was clearly never going to get to the point,” Mercer said, and pulled his sword free. Cicero slumped to his knees, making soft gurgling sounds.

Mercer looked a little worse for wear. His armour was scuffed and torn, and one cheek was scabbed over. He held himself stiffly as well; Rath guessed he’d knitted himself back together with potions, and was still feeling sore.

The Dark Brotherhood hurled themselves into action, everyone’s eyes still wide with shock.

“How dare you breach our Sanctuary,” Astrid snarled.

Mercer dived back into the passageway as Festus hurled a fireball at him.

“Oh that won’t do,” his voice still carried. “Play among yourselves.”

With a snarl Arnbjorn threw his head back and howled, fur sprouting from his skin, claws lengthening. And then he turned and leaped on his wife.

“He’s enchanted!” Rath yelled, and the assassins were forced to split their attention to rescue Astrid who was grimly fending off Arnbjorn’s claws.

Rath bounded up the stairs after Mercer, sure that the others could look after themselves. She stepped over Cicero without giving him a second glance. Mercer had gone. She feinted at the air, but he’d retreated along the corridor.

“Another surrogate family, Rath?” Yes, he’d moved. He was somewhere in front of her. “You should have told your old guild master you were so lonely. He would have cheered you up.”

She bared her teeth but didn’t reply. The sad thing was, there would have been a time where such an offer would have meant the world to her.

“Although I would have thought you’d have better taste in friends. What a bunch of lunatics.” The timbre of his voice had changed. He was no longer in the corridor but out in the central area near the pool.

 _LAS_ _YAH_ _NIR_ she breathed. Shouts could be quiet, in a sense like distant thunder could be quiet. The sound whispered into every corner of the cavern. There he was. She could see him now, see the life flowing in his veins. He must have sensed he’d been spotted because when she darted at him from the shadows he parried her blade, his invisibility falling away from him as edge grated against edge.

Rath was beginning to find combat with Mercer familiar, only this time she had the advantage. He wasn’t as fast as he usually was; he hadn’t waited to recover before coming after her.

“Did it hurt?” she asked. “When you hit the ground, I mean.” She smirked. The look on his face told her everything she wanted to know. She pressed her advantage, made him work to defend himself, and soon his forehead was shiny from sweat, and he was breathing hard.

He staggered as one of Veezara’s arrows caught him in the side. Arnbjorn and Babette were absent, but the rest of the Brotherhood was out for revenge. Astrid was bloody and bruised and her eyes were alight with fury.

Mercer disappeared, but the shout was still ringing in Rath’s ears and eyes and she went after him, forcing him to defend himself and he reappeared again, staggering slightly as he deflected Chillrend. It was going to feel good to beat him twice in a row, Rath thought. This time, she’d make sure he was dead.

“Move back,” Festus commanded. “And I shall show you the true power of a mage.”

“Well that’s no fun,” Mercer growled. He was still focused on Rath, and a strange smile hovered around his lips.

It wasn’t an expression she liked.

He turned towards the oncoming Assassins, and took a deep breath.

_FUS RO DAH!_

The Brotherhood tumbled back against each other, legs knocked from under them. It hadn’t been directed at her, but Rath felt a similar falling sensation, like the floor had disappeared from under her feet.

He couldn’t be. He couldn't have. It just didn’t make any sense. _How?_

She stared at him, her mouth hanging open in sheer shock. Mercer, for his part, looked irredeemably smug, like a performer waiting for a round of applause. He probably could have walked up and gutted her in those few seconds, as she struggled to process what was happening before her eyes.

“Now why the surprise?” Mercer asked, his eyes locked with hers. “You should celebrate this moment, when you find an adversary truly worthy of you. I will take your life, I promise you. But first, I’m going to take some other things from you.”

He disappeared, and this time, he was just _gone_. The Brotherhood were picking themselves up, and spread out looking for him, stabbing at the air and muttering spells. Arnbjorn and Babette soon joined them.

“The enchantment’s worn off,” Babette said. “It seemed safe to release him.”

“That’s because Mercer’s gone,” Rath said. She hadn’t joined in the search.

They gathered around Cicero’s corpse.

“Well, that could have been a lot worse,” Astrid said. There was general agreement. “But how did he get in here? Did that clown let him in?”

“I don’t think so,” Nazir said. “He would have been a threat to the Night Mother. Speaking of which.”

“I’ll look after her,” Babette said. “Dust her off occasionally.”

“I had a bad feeling about Cicero,” Astrid said. “I was actually going to have you spy on him,” she told Rath. “That won’t be necessary now, and we can focus our attentions on Mercer.”

“No,” Rath said. “You saw what he did to Arnbjorn. This isn’t your fight.”

“He’s the Dragonborn, Rath,” Veezara pointed out. “You can’t fight-”

“He is not the Dragonborn!” Rath shouted. The others stared at her, shocked by the outburst. “He is not,” she repeated, grinding her teeth. “I don’t know how he Shouted but it is not his right. And even if he was, that doesn’t explain how he got in here in the first place.” She turned and hurried to her pack, pulling out her journal.

It opened at the usual place, _Slay Mercer Frey_ still the first words she saw, but that wasn’t what she was looking for. She sat on her bed and flipped back through the pages of crossed out ‘to do’ lists until she found something that wasn’t crossed out, something she’d written months ago and then completely forgotten.

_Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller._

The Greybeards had been sanctimonious and boring, but they weren’t going to accept her entirely until she found the horn. Until this point, she hadn't really cared; she was a thief, and didn't see much use for Shouts. But Mercer found it first, would they accept him if he could Shout? She didn’t know, but it was no longer a risk she could take. She’d feel better with the Horn in her possession, either way.

“Are you sure?” Astrid asked.

“This place isn’t safe from him, which means no place is safe. I need to keep moving, and work out what the hell he meant by take other things from me.”

“He probably meant your nose,” Festus said. “Then your ears, then-”

“I don’t think so,” Rath interrupted him. “But thank you for your contribution.”

She felt scared and angry, but she forced herself to be calm, as once again she packed up to leave a place she thought was safe. She’d be sleeping on the road from now on. The others offered to accompany her, but understood when she said it was something she had to do alone.

As soon as she was out of earshot of the Sanctuary, she Shouted, just to make sure Mercer hadn’t stolen the Voice from her.

If not from her, where had he got it? The more she thought about it, the stronger the feeling of _wrongness_ crept over her. She was convinced her own Shout two days previous had caught him utterly by surprise, and that he himself had acquired the ability only in the time since.


	8. Pursuit

Rath travelled long and hard. The scar on her cheek had healed to a pale streak, and as she'd made her way into Skyrim's cold interior, she'd swapped her Nightingale Armour for fur. She traded at farmhouses and with hunters for food and news in exchange for pelts from the animals she'd hunted on the move.

She slept under the stars, in the saddle, or occasionally in someone's barn. She'd bought a tough, shaggy, bad-tempered horse from a Khajiit caravan; she'd got a good price and she thought they were this close to paying her to take the creature off her hands. When he wasn't trying to bite her he was trying to kick her, but when she managed to haul herself up onto his back he seemed inexhaustible.

She called him Pluck, a polite cousin of the word she usually used around him, and together they crossed the Whiterun Plains, and scaled the mountains to the north, up past the Labyrinthian, where they spent days bogged down by deep snow and harassed by frost trolls.

Ice floated in the still, stagnant pools of the Morthal swamps, and even during the day it was sometimes dark enough to coax the torchbugs and moths out of their hiding places. Rath and Pluck plodded on, avoiding the township.

The time spent travelling had been good, Rath decided. Her anger had cooled to something hard and cold; useful as a blade, but not consuming like a fire. Just as Mercer had decided he wanted to do more than merely kill her, she had come to a similar conclusion regarding him.

He was no mage. He was no Dragonborn, either. If she was going to kill him, she had to first discover just what he was, and what he was capable of. She had to approach this with an open mind; Mercer wasn't just some piece of unfinished business, to be tidied away before moving on.

Ustengrav loomed out of the late morning mist, and Rath dismounted, automatically stepping out of the way of Pluck's teeth as he swung his head around to try and bite her. The sound of insects humming and the faint trickling of brackish water over stones were the only sounds. Their breath collected mist in front of their mouths as horse and human waited for a few moments.

Rath swung her pack off Pluck's back and tied the horse to one of the dark, unhealthy looking trees. There were a few bodies scattered around the outside of the tomb, several bandits and a necromancer, along with signs of battle. She couldn't tell if Mercer had been this way or whether they'd simply killed each other. The corpses were a few days old. She spent a few minutes searching the bandit's camp. She knelt down, pulled off a glove, and stirred her hand in the ash of the old fire.

Nothing stayed warm here very long, but deep in the firepit she could feel a suggestion of heat. The fire was only hours dead. She wiped the ash on her jerkin and put her glove back on.

Ustengrav awaited, and Rath saw no reason to delay. She found more dead bandits and mages in the upper level of the tomb, and it looked like the battle on the surface had also been waged underground.

She kept to the shadows, but nothing living moved in her wake. The traps remained set.

She ventured further down, and came across a word wall, and she let the syllable imprint itself on her mind. This had been too easy; the corpses here were all unmoving. She prodded a couple with her foot, but they didn't so much as shudder. Someone had been here before.

Beyond the word wall was a series of iron gates that opened when she approached three carved stones. The only way through was to Shout, to run faster than the wind.

Next she came across a floor laced with pressure plates spewing fire. Several spiders had been caught in the flames, and she could still smell scorched chitin; it had happened recently.

More dead spiders. Something had drawn them out of their bolt-holes, and no ordinary adventurer could have made it past the gates. Rath had some idea who it might have been.

The final chamber was once again empty, and Rath hurried forward, still wary, blades drawn. As she'd half-expected, the Horn was not there.

She wasn't, however, expecting a note.

She plucked it from its resting place and read it.

_Dragonborn--_

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room in the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._

_\--A friend_

Rath raised an eyebrow. This definitely wasn't Mercer's writing; she'd become familiar enough with that when she went through his office, nor was it his style. The note looked quite old as well.

She heaved a sigh. It looked like she had to go back the way she'd just come. Working on the assumption that Mercer had managed to get here ahead of her, he'd clearly have read the note as well, and chosen to leave it for her to find. She had no option but to go to Riverwood, and hope whoever 'a friend' was, Mercer hadn't cut them in half by the time she got there.

She found a shortcut out of the tomb, and emerged out into the swamp. No ambushes awaited her when she left the tomb.

Pluck wasn't where she'd left him. She whistled sharply. A snort from a short distance away was the response, and Rath waded through the pale reeds to where Pluck was standing in a small pool. He looked upset, his ears twitching and he tossed his head as she approached, rather than lunged for her face.

“What's wrong, boy?” Rath came up alongside the animal, and she felt muscles quiver under her hand as she patted his flank. It was then she noticed a shallow gash in Pluck's shoulder. The wound was very fresh.

She grabbed Pluck's bridle and led him out of the water to have a closer look. His mouth looked slightly misshapen as well, giving him a sneering look which suited him more than Rath found reassuring. It was as if someone had punched him. Who'd punch a horse? Someone who'd tried to ride him without knowing he always bit, and retaliated when he did so. Someone who had no qualms getting revenge on a horse, but who couldn't be bothered following him into the swamp when he bolted, perhaps.

“Did you bite him?” Rath asked. “You bit him, didn't you? Good boy.” Pluck tossed his head irritably as Rath stroked his nose. “I'm going to buy you so many carrots.” First she had to patch up the wound, which required tying Pluck to the tree again, as he clearly didn't appreciate her efforts.

It was dark by the time they got moving again, but there was no time to waste. They had to get to Riverwood.

Rath retraced her footsteps south, pushing Pluck to his limits for days on end. The horse was nearly stumbling with exhaustion when they came down from the mountains, and Rath had to let him rest. She built a small fire and roasted a rabbit she'd shot earlier, looking out over the Whiterun Plains, the bonfires of the Giants, the wisps of smoke that marked a hunter's camp or a farmhouse, and on the horizon Whiterun glowed in the dark, Dragonsreach rising above it like a tombstone.

Rath was not a big picture sort of person. She liked small things; gems, and locks and gold, but Mercer was messing with something bigger than both of them. If the return of the dragons really was something to do with being Dragonborn, how badly could a false Dragonborn mess things up?

She didn't want to sleep, but she had to. Riverwood was a little over a day's hard ride away.

Riverwood was not a smoking ruin when Rath arrived the following evening. Her legs ached as she dropped off Pluck's back.

“He bites!” she warned a couple of children who were approaching the horse with hopeful expressions. She hurried into the Inn, not sure what to expect. Everything was as she remembered from last time. Had she been wrong? She approached the man behind the bar.

“Can I rent a room?” she asked.

“Inn's closed,” he replied. “Bar's still open though. Feel free to sit and put your head on a table for as long as you like. I won't bother you.”

“Where's the inkeeper?” What was her name? Delphine.

“Out. She owns the place, she does what she wants.”

“I was hoping to rent the attic room,” Rath persisted. She saw a flash of something–recognition perhaps–in the barman's eyes.

“Look, around, you see an attic here?”

Rath looked up at the bare rafters of the roof above them.

“Where is Delphine?” Rath asked.

“I don't know. I'm busy, all right?”

Rath leaned across the bar and grabbed his wrist as he tried to move away. “Has she left with someone? She could be in real danger. I'm serious.”

He pulled away, “She can take care of herself.” He deliberately walked over to someone else and started serving them, ending the conversation. Rath sighed and let her head fall on the bar with a thunk.

Wonderful. How was she going to find them now?

She lifted her head again. She wasn't so easily discouraged. There had to be some sort of clue around here somewhere, and if there was, she was just the thief to find it. First, she ordered a meal and something to drink.

The food was terrible but the ale wasn't bad, and at least it was filling and cheap. She took the barman's suggestion and put her head on the table, and she didn't have to feign dozing off.

She woke with a start. The fires were burning low, and the inn was almost empty. The barman was sitting with his feet on the stone edge of the firepit, sleeping in his chair, his arms folded. Careful not to make any noise, Rath got to her feet, and started her search. The guest rooms yielded nothing, which didn't surprise her but thoroughness dictated she search them anyway. Every time the barman shifted in his sleep she'd freeze, holding her breath.

Delphine's room looked ordinary enough, but it didn't take long for Rath to realise the wardrobe had quite a serious lock on it. She didn't have to waste time fiddling with it; the Skeleton Key opened that at least.

The wardrobe was empty. Rath wasn't fooled. She poked and prodded with the tip of the Razor, and a tiny panel disguised as a knothole yielded to the blade, and the back of the wardrobe swung open.

Rath grinned.

The passageway beyond led to a small underground room. Rath wondered just how many people in Skyrim had secret offices under their houses. This one was much better furnished than Mercer's, and Rath helped herself to potions and arrows as she searched the chests and cupboards, quickly and quietly.

In the centre of the room was a large table on which a map was unfurled.

“I know this,” Rath murmured. It looked like a copy of what was carved on the Dragonstone she'd retrieved for Whiterun's odious court wizard. It was a map of Skyrim, upon which various sites had been marked in ink. The ones in the south-east had been crossed out, and one near Kynesgrove had been circled.

It was good enough for Rath. She marked the location on her map and returned the way she'd come, closing the secret door and the wardrobe behind her. She had no idea how far ahead Mercer and Delphine were; as tired as she was, she'd have to catch up on her sleep in the saddle. She didn't know how Mercer managed to always stay ahead of her. So far she'd seen no sign of a horse, although he could be stealing them as he went.

Didn't he need sleep any more?


	9. Conversation

Now that she was in pursuit of Mercer, rather than the other way around, Rath didn't have to avoid the towns and main roads so assiduously. She still preferred to sleep in the wilderness, hidden from all sight, but during the day Pluck's hooves rang on the paved cobblestone roads east from Whiterun and she overtook merchants and guard patrols. She made good time. She didn't catch up to Mercer.

She was only a half a mile away from Kynesgrove when she heard the dragon. Swearing, she kicked her heels into Pluck's sides and he cantered up to the hamlet. It was almost deserted. Sensibly, almost everyone appeared to have taken refuge in the mine, tools downed, and posts abandoned. Only the two guards were still outside and they shouted a warning to Rath as she and Pluck thundered past. She waved to let them know she'd heard, but didn't slow down.

She steered Pluck off the path and they crashed through the undergrowth, working their way around the spot upon which the dragon was focusing its attacks. She caught glimpses of the huge creature occasionally through gaps in the trees, but she was mostly relying on the sound of its roar to keep her bearings.

She left Pluck tied to a sapling in the forest. If he really needed to escape he could probably break the young tree, but as he'd never met anything that moved that he hadn't tried to bite or kick, she didn't want to take him with her and risk having him attack a dragon. As vicious as Pluck was, she was pretty sure the dragon would win.

Dropping into a crouch, Rath made her way through the trees to the clearing above the town. The ground was scorched in several places, and in the centre of the clearing two figures were making their stand; Mercer, and a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and leather armour. Rath recognised the latter as the innkeeper of The Sleeping Giant, and she wondered just who Delphine really was. She didn't act like any innkeeper Rath had ever known.

“We've got to ground that bastard!” Rath heard her yell.

Mercer had a bow, and was doing his best to take the creature down, but all in all it seemed more aggravated rather than hurt. Rath wasn't much of an archer either, but she had the advantage of surprise; none of the combatants seemed to know she was there. She unslung her bow and poured poison on an arrow before drawing bead on Mercer.

He wasn't standing still, and she tracked him, the bowstring taut next to her ear, as he danced out of the way of the dragon's flames. She'd get one shot; she didn't want to have to fight Delphine, who'd probably defend Mercer at this stage. 

What to do?

The dragon landed briefly and Delphine charged in, while Mercer was putting his bow away. The dragon swung its massive head and knocked her sideways before opening its jaws. Delphine struggled to her feet, still holding her blades.

Mercer darted in and hacked at the dragon's flank.

“Over here, come on,” he roared, drawing the dragon clear of Delphine.

Rath had to admit despite herself that it was pretty courageous of him, especially given he wasn't the Dragonborn. If she took him out now, she might not get there fast enough to help Delphine. The dragon grew sick of being needled at and took to the air again. As it did so, Rath changed her target. She let her arrow fly. It caught the creature in the softer skin behind its jaw, and it whipped its head up and screeched.

Mercer lowered his blade for a second and scanned the trees. He'd noticed. Rath couldn't tell for certain, but she thought his expression was a pleased one.

The dragon landed again, this time crashing with such force that Rath could feel it through the thin leather of her fur boots. Her poisoned arrow, along with the damage it had already sustained, was wearing it down.

“Now's our best chance!” Delphine called, having found her feet. She charged in, Mercer at her heels. The dragon snapped at them, and Delphine stumbled, trying to deflect the creature with her blade. Mercer seemed to be trying to get behind it, but he was running the risk of getting stomped on.

There was no reason any longer for Rath to hide; Mercer knew she was there. Maybe it was time to prove who the real Dragonborn was. Mercer had his hands full, and if he tried anything Rath would make sure Delphine found out about it before she skewered the bastard.

“Let's see him lie his way out of this,” she murmured. She drew her blades and charged.

She was still crossing open ground when she saw Mercer glance at her

He yelled, “Look out!” Then he deliberately turned and brought the hilt of his blade down on the back of Delphine's head. She crumpled.

Rath bared her teeth in frustration but the dragon was already turning towards her. It was too late to seek refuge in the forest again. She darted around under its head, slashing at it with Chillrend, but more intent on locating Mercer.

Mercer didn't seem interested in engaging with her. Instead he did his best to keep the bulk of the dragon between them, darting away whenever Rath looked like she was going to get within striking distance. As a strategy it successfully confused the dragon, who turned to snap first at Rath and then at Mercer. They hacked at it, Rath still determined to get through it to the man on the other side, concentrating less on the creature itself.

Eventually it died, its body shuddering and a mournful groan echoing off the surrounding hills. Dragons usually did die when they met Rath.

The heaving, twitching body of the dragon was stretched out between them as Rath met Mercer's gaze. Neither of them looked away as the dragon began to disintegrate, and great streams of light wound around Rath's body as the dragon soul poured into her. Rath smiled triumphantly; she had considered the possibility that Mercer had learned to absorb souls too, since there was no skill he seemed unable to pick up.

He inclined his head politely in acknowledgement and then Mercer strode over to Delphine. He let his dwemer blade hang in his hand, the tip resting against the back of Delphine's neck. The woman was out cold, but Rath could see her back rising and falling as she breathed, and she didn't seem to be bleeding.

“I knew it had to be you,” Mercer said. “I should have guessed from the moment I first heard the rumours of a Dragonborn.”

“Why?” Rath asked.

“I said before; I always knew you were trouble. Ah-ah. I wouldn't do that if I were you.” She'd only taken a step in his direction but Mercer looked at Delphine meaningfully. “She could be the only one who knows how the dragons might be defeated and why they're here. You keep your distance, Rath, or risk dooming them all.”

Rath took a step back again. He was right; she wouldn't risk Delphine's life by calling his bluff.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“For you, of course,” Mercer answered, as if surprised she didn't know. He looked a bit different; the sneer, the stubble, the stance was the same, but his eyes were alive in a way Rath had never seen them in the Cistern. Maybe it was the natural light, but she wasn't convinced.

“You're doing this because you're bored?”

“I'm not bored any more,” he pointed out. “And neither are you, are you?”

“You're toying with the lives of countless innocent people who've done nothing to hurt you. Come after me, fine, but leave this Dragonborn stuff alone. It's more important than the Guild, more important than both of us.”

Mercer smirked at her, “Maybe I'm doing it better than you did. After all, you've spent the last few months stealing for the Guild and hanging out in the Cistern instead of fighting dragons It looks to me like you didn't think this was all that important at all.” He shook his head, “Don't try and take the high road, Rath. It doesn't suit either of us, and while this continues to interest me, I'm not backing away. _You_ can do what you like.”

“You think I'm going to just leave it to you?”

“Of course not.”

Delphine shifted and made a whimpering sound. Mercer frowned.

“She's gonna wake up in a moment, and you'd better be gone by the time she does. If I see so much as your shadow I'll cut her throat.”

“That's it?” Rath asked.

“I'll tell you what,” Mercer drawled. “Since you helped me out by absorbing that soul, and putting that lizard in the ground, I'll answer one question without lying. Think carefully, but think quick.”

One question. If she asked him what he was doing, he'd likely as not say something meaningless like 'breathing.'

Rath narrowed her eyes, “How did you open the puzzle door in Snow Veil Sanctum?”

A slow smile spread across Mercer's face. “See, that's what I like about you. Just when you're getting boring and self-righteous and I start to think you might not be worth the effort, you prove me wrong.”

“Just answer the question.”

“I commanded it to open,” he said. “And it did so.” Rath was about to protest the ridiculousness of the remark when Mercer spoke again, “All else is earth, and under your temporal command.”

“What?” There is something unsettling about this, Rath felt. Long ago, when she was young, she'd lie next to her mother and they'd look up a the moons and the stars in the night sky. One night, Rath had fallen asleep there and dreamt she was not looking up, but was instead looking down, into a limitless abyss. It wasn't a nightmare that was ever repeated, but neither was it forgotten, and she remembered it now, as she gazed into Mercer's eyes.

“Go,” he said quietly.

Rath backed off, and when she was among the trees again she flattened herself against the ground and wiggled through some snowberry bushes. Mercer said he didn't want to see her, she wasn't just going to go away.

Mercer knelt down beside Delphine, and gently rolled her over. It looked almost tender, the way he cradled her head and spoke to her, coaxing a potion past her lips. Rath reminded herself that he was the one who'd injured her in the first place, but if she'd been in Delphine's place she might have been fooled as well. She edged closer, keeping her head down, determined to hear what they were saying as Delphine awoke.

It wasn't easy, and Rath dug herself deeper into the dirt, trying to make the most of every rock, and every tuft of grass. She could hear them talking as Delphine recovered. It sounded like Mercer was asking questions.

“How are we going to get into the Thalmor Embassy?” he asked.

Thalmor? Rath really wished she knew what was going on.

“I'm not sure yet. I have a few ideas but I'll need some time to pull things together. For now, we should head back to Riverwood. Meet me there, if you've other business.”

Mercer raised his head, and Rath lowered hers, willing herself to be invisible.

“I'll come with you,” Mercer said. “There are dragons about after all.”

“Yes. Keep an eye on the sky. This is only going to get worse.”

Rath lay still while Delphine let Mercer haul her to her feet and they made their way down the hill. She didn't move immediately, instead rolling onto her back and looking at the clouds drifting across the sky.

She'd been granted an opportunity. For all that they'd been chasing each other, Rath now had the chance to get ahead; she knew where he was going, and that he'd be delayed now he was working to Delphine's timetable. Which meant she had to get to Solitude as fast as possible, and then work out how to get into the Thalmor embassy without Delphine's help, whatever that was.

She sat up, determined. There wasn't a place in Skyrim the Guild couldn't infiltrate if it put its mind to it, and she was the best the Guild had to offer. When Mercer managed to get into that Embassy, she'd be waiting for him.

 


	10. Employment

Rath had never considered herself beautiful. She was tall and wiry, and from the back she was occasionally mistaken for a man, but among the pale and hairy Nords she was striking at the very least.

So when she arrived in Solitude she applied for a job at the Thalmor Embassy, and getting one was surprisingly easy. To be a serving girl at a Thalmor party was one of the best jobs available for servants in Solitude not employed at the palace, and they hired extra staff when a party was organised. Whenever one was in the offing, young women of a certain class could talk of nothing else, and Rath had no trouble getting all the details.

Rath felt exposed without armour, but nevertheless she managed to lace herself into a burgundy commoner's dress she'd bought that morning. An expensive trip to the apothecary provided a small pot of rather pleasant-smelling paste that when applied to the scars on her exposed arms and shoulders made them blend into her dark skin. One could take striking too far, after all. She didn't want to look dangerous.

That afternoon, a Bosmer named Malborn lined up the dozen girls who'd applied, and made them each in turn carry a tray of drinks and offer them to an imaginary crowd. Luckily, Rath was not first and by the time it was her turn she'd worked out how to smile sweetly. Manoeuvring the tray was comparable to dancing around an opponent's blade, and she performed, she felt, adequately.

“You, you, you and you.” Malborn pointed out four of the applicants, including Rath, and the others sighed and stomped off. “Right, some of you've done this before, but for those who are new, remember, you are there to serve the guests. If someone behaves in a disruptive and uncouth manner, you may summon a guard, but please refrain from doing so if you possibly can. Everyone at this party is far more important than any of you will ever be.”

There were nods and murmurs of assent.

“What he means,” a young Bosmer whispered to Rath. “Is that you can expect your arse to get groped, and you should do nothing about it but smile.”

“The money better be good,” Rath grumbled under her breath.

“Oh, it is. And the tips can be spectacular.”

They were transported to the Thalmor Embassy in an open carriage, and Rath shivered in her thin clothes. Of course, none of them were allowed to carry weapons, but at least she could take heart from the fact that Mercer would be without one as well.

Huddling to keep warm, Rath fell into conversation with the Bosmer, who introduced herself as Brelas.

“I'm not surprised he picked you,” she said. “We've never had a Redguard before, and Elenwen is always looking to make her parties interesting.”

“What happens at these parties anyway?”

“Rarely anything exciting. Most people are there for the politics, so it's mostly talking. Don't let them catch you eavesdropping; if you're lucky they'll throw you out, if you're not you'll end up in the dungeon.”

“There's a dungeon? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.”

“The guest is always right, remember that. Smile, don't drop anything, and you'll be fine.”

When they arrived at the Embassy, they were put to work cleaning and decorating the huge ballroom, and wiping down endless silver goblets. The kitchen was already hard at work. Rath was the first to volunteer for fetch and carry jobs to get the best idea of the layout of the place.

She found herself working quite hard. She swept and carried and polished, and Malborn seemed satisfied with her work. The party wasn't until the following evening, and the extra staff were given bedrolls in the kitchen, which was warm enough given the proximity of the ovens, and they were given both a decent dinner and a hearty breakfast. The Thalmor had plenty of money to spend making sure their staff had no reason to slack off or to sample the party favours.

By evening, Rath knew her way around the kitchens and the pantry, had noted all the exits on the ground floor and she'd spied stairs going up. No sign of a dungeon, but she knew there were other buildings in the Embassy grounds. She'd only caught a glimpse of the outside layout when she was ordered to bring in a huge box of fresh flowers delivered by cart. It was snowing.

Malborn inspected them one last time before the guests arrived, to make sure everyone was clean and well-presented, and going over their duties.

“Remember, you don't need permission to get more food. If something's about to run out, take the whole plate back to the kitchen and get a full one. Fast.”

Almost despite herself, Rath was anticipating this party, and she'd put enough work into it to almost care whether or not it was a success. Along with a few other girls, she picked up a tray drinks, silently went over what kind of wine she was actually serving in case someone asked, and swept out to the ballroom to start work.

The first guests started arriving early, Brelas in charge of taking their coats and gloves and smiling sweetly. Rath worked to get a drink into their hands before they'd taken more than three steps into the room, which wasn't hard.

There was a small band, playing pleasant, unobtrusive music. Elenwen totally ignored the servants, and they were under strict instructions not to talk to her. At most they were to silently offer her food and drinks.

Once the initial rush of performing a new job in front of a demanding boss had worn off, Rath found herself rather bored by the whole thing. Smile, dip, smile, get new tray, smile. She wasn't bothered by wandering hands too much either; just like in a fight, she could anticipate her opponents' moves and glide out of the way, and smile, of course.

Brelas got the worst of it. She was small and cute, and a Bosmer. She smiled, and once she caught Rath watching her and gave her a reassuring wink. She'd told her she'd done five of these parties already. Rath didn't know how she stood it.

Rath desperately hoped Delphine had come through with a plan for Mercer. If she hadn't, then she'd have to try for the next party, which meant going through this whole thing again. Keep smiling, dammit! So she watched the door, as the flow of guests slowed to a trickle, and the ballroom filled with noise.

The band started playing a bit louder, and a few guests even took to the dance floor.

Rath found herself offering a middle-aged woman a tray of spiced meat skewers and was startled to recognise Maven. Their eyes met for a second before they separated without a flicker of recognition. You stick to your business, and keep your nose out of mine. Rath was more than happy to do that.

The buffet started to be attacked in earnest, and Rath found herself hurrying back and forth from the kitchen with plates of fruit and cheese and pastries. They were given a short break every two hours, and most of the serving girls spent theirs in a state of utter exhaustion.

Rath was pouring yet another dozen goblets full of wine when she caught sight of Elenwen moving quite purposefully to the entrance to greet a late-arriving guest. Rath followed her gaze.

Mercer had arrived.

He'd scrubbed up.

Rath couldn't see any weapons, and he'd swapped his Guild leathers for a dark grey and black outfit that was trimmed with wolf fur and must have cost a fortune. Probably the Guild's fortune. Leather boots. Who in Oblivion was he trying to impress, she wondered? He'd washed his hair for the first time since she'd met him, and even tied most of it back.

Somehow, he didn't look any more respectable than he ever had. He looked more like a pirate king than a merchant prince. Feral. Elenwen didn't bat an eyelash as he greeted her with a gracious bow. Rath realised she was holding an empty bottle over a very full goblet, and quickly decanted some into a second glass before it overflowed.

Calm down. The next part begins now. She forced herself to focus on her job, and luckily Malborn seemed more interested in the newcomer than his staff at just that moment.

Rath wondered if Maven had noticed Mercer yet, and just what she was thinking. She had to know what had happened to the Guild by now.

Mercer talked to Elenwen for a while, and then to Rath's frustration she lost him in the crowd. The next time she saw him, he was talking to a tall Altmer but looking straight at her. He smiled.

Rath smiled too. She had to keep smiling. She still didn't know why either of them were actually _here,_ and what any of it had to do with the dragons. She just had to keep watching Mercer and hope she figured it out.

It was harder than it looked. Mercer wasn't particularly tall, and in a room full of Altmer and Nords he seemed capable of disappearing whenever he wanted and popping up somewhere entirely different. She caught glimpses of him here and there, and she started to think he was deliberately avoiding her, no matter how aggressively she smiled and pushed her tray of drinks through the crowd.

And then she was placing a tray of freshly-baked sweetrolls on one of the buffet tables and he was right behind her. He leaned past her to help himself to a piece of cheese, so close she could smell him; leather and wine and soap and pine.

“I knew the Guild wasn't doing so well, but isn't this a bit beneath you, Rath?” he murmured into her ear. She noticed an emerald pin on his collar; it matched his eyes.

“How dare you joke about that,” she hissed, smiling sweetly and politely getting out of his way.

It didn't do her much good, he simply moved into the space she'd given him.

“Oh, they'll be fine,” he looked into her eyes. “They've got you, haven't they?” He looked amused. Then he looked her up and down.

Rath smiled, keeping her lips together so no one could see her gritted teeth.

“Excuse me, sir.” She moved away, intending to take an empty tray back to the kitchen.

“Not quite yet,” Mercer growled, and his hand snapped out and caught her wrist. It took everything she had not to retaliate, not to drive her knee into his groin or throw some wine in his eyes, or simply hurl herself at him and start punching. As it was, all she did was tense up, still smiling.

He was a guest, and she was staff. If he made a fuss he could get her thrown out whether she'd done anything or not.

“I have to work,” she said.

“You are working.” He wasn't gripping her hard; she could probably break away if she wanted to. “But I think this is a good opportunity to talk, don't you think?”

Rath cast about for a few seconds. Brelas caught her eye, raising her eyebrows. Did she want help? Rath, still smiling, shook her head slightly. She had to handle this. No one else could.

“Fine,” she said. She stepped right up against him, the hem of her skirt brushing his boots, her eyes boring into his as she looked down her nose at him. “You don't get to drag me around and manhandle me.”

He smiled oddly, more of a twitch of the lips than a proper smile, but she was close enough to pick out the individual flecks of colour in his eyes and she didn't miss it.

“And you get to drop that ridiculous expression,” he said. “It's like I'm talking to a mannequin.”

She let the smile fade, and she realised her face ached slightly from the effort. She hadn't invaded his personal space just because she wanted to look down his shirt, however. As she swept up to him, her free hand had brushed over a plate of cheese, and her long fingers had closed around the handle of the cheese knife. It wasn't anything like a proper weapon, but it was sharp, and more than he had, and she trusted she could gut him with it.

He let go of her wrist. Rath slid the blade into the pocket of her skirt.

“Now that we've sorted out the rules,” Mercer said. To her surprise, he took her hand. “Shall we dance?”


	11. Dance

“Why are we dancing?” Rath hissed, as Mercer politely escorted her towards the band.

“Because.” Since he was a guest, she wouldn't be considered to be not doing her job by entertaining him, but Rath felt they drew far too much attention. Maybe it was just her. It wasn't like anyone seemed to be actually staring at them. Mercer placed his hand on her hip, and she rather reluctantly placed hers on his shoulder. “Now we won't be overheard,” he said. He pulled her a bit closer and murmured into her ear. “It won't look so strange to be whispering, out here.”

Rath was bewildered. Out of all the possible scenarios for this evening that she'd considered, this was not one of them. She didn't like being so off-balance.

“I didn't know you could dance,” she said. She herself was barely competent. Her parents had insisted that all their children learn, but they were a boisterous bunch who were far more interested in swimming and sparring. By the time she was old enough to see the point in that sort of thing she was as tall or taller than many of her male peers, and none of them seemed very keen on dancing in her shadow. 

Mercer didn't seem to care. Rath suspected his towering ego more than made up for the few inches in height she had on him. He seemed far more confident than she was, and he was wearing much heavier shoes, so she had to keep shuffling her feet out of his way or risk breaking a few toes.

“There's a lot you don't know about me, Rath.”

“Is this the part where you tell me?” she asked dryly.

“Some things need to be seen, and felt, to be believed.”

She looked at his face, expecting, well, she wasn't sure what exactly, a taunting grin, or even a leer, but he looked quite serious.

“You're quite resourceful,” he said. “I am impressed, but it is your weakness as well.”

“How so?” She was getting the hang of the dance now, so she didn't need to concentrate on her feet so much, freeing her to listen more carefully to what he was saying.

“It lets you work within the rules. I take your place, and you work around me. You don't have to do that, Rath. Once you know what you want, you can just take it. Anything.”

“I haven't managed to kill you,” she pointed out.

“You haven't really tried. You keep holding back. First it was the Key, then it was your fellow thieves. Delphine. But look around you.” He swept her around, and they both scanned the crowd as they spun to the music. “No one in this room is worth spit. Kill me, then kill your way out. What's stopping you?” His expression was a taunting one.

“The fact that I have no weapons, and that I'd be greatly outnumbered.”

Mercer scoffed quietly. “You'll have to do better than that.”

“Suppose I did Shout them all to death. There are innocent people here, as well as Jarls. Elsif. What would happen if I killed her? There'd be chaos. It might even start another war.”

“That's what holds you back. That's why I'm going to win this game in the end, unless you learn to stop fearing that chaos.”

“Because you're a monster who doesn't care who he betrays and who he kills.” Her hand tightened instinctively around his in anger.

“Define monster,” he said. “But you're right, I don't care.” He smirked at her.

Rath found she couldn't really argue with that. “Why are you here? What does the Embassy have to do with the dragons?”

“Oh that,” Mercer sounded bored, humouring her. “Delphine thinks the Thalmor might be behind the dragon attacks.”

“Why?”

“She's a Blade. Or she was. Apparently they have a grudge against the Thalmor.” Rath exchanged a glance with him, and he shrugged. “Yeah, it doesn't make much sense to me either.”

“Even if the Thalmor don’t have anything to do with it, they might have some idea who does,” Rath mused.

“Precisely why I went along with Delphine’s suggestion. They have some of the most organised intelligence gathering in the province.”

Rath felt a pang then, of regret for what might have been. She could see clearly how well they might have worked together, how well they did work together for the short time in which they were allied. But this didn’t feel real, let alone right; neither of them were their proper selves here, the clothes, the way they danced so politely and civilly with each other. It was as fragile as a soap bubble.

“What’s going to happen when the music stops, Mercer?” she asked.

His eyes gleamed. “I don’t know. That’s the best part.” They'd been moving faster, dancing out towards the edges of the crowd. “But I think.” They had momentum. Rath wasn't even sure where they were going, but she knew by now Mercer had a plan. “I'll need a distraction. And if it's not you carving a riotous swathe through this pompous crowd of complacent bootlickers, politicians and sadistic elven supremacists, it may as well be your corpse.”

She realised where they were going now, only when he put all his not-inconsiderable strength into flinging her against the wall of one of the many shadowed nooks that lined the room, purpose built for private networking and politics rather than for making out. Mercer followed her in, teeth bared, and clamped one calloused hand around her neck as her back hit the carved wood, his fingers digging into her throat as he closed off her airway.

At least, at first.

As soon as she'd felt disaster approaching, and as soon as he'd let go of her hand, she'd reached into the pocket of her skirt. Mercer pressed her up against the wall, trapping her arm down by her side, but that didn't matter. Despite her animal brain panicking as she failed to draw breath, Rath managed a smile as she jabbed the end of the cheese knife into Mercer's inner thigh.

He felt that; she could see his gaze flick downwards.

If she moved the blade one way, she'd hit his femoral artery. If she moved it the other, she threatened something she suspected was far more valuable to him.

“Ah.” His grip loosened, slightly, and she gratefully sucked in a lungful of air.

“Hey, what exactly-” The approaching Imperial faltered as Rath and Mercer turned their heads in unison and glared at him.

“This isn't your business,” Mercer rasped.

“Right.” He ducked his head, and mumbled an apology before backing away. Rath turned her attention back to Mercer, and he looked at her. With adrenaline pumping through her veins, it was as if the rest of the party had receded like the outgoing tide. The dancers were only feet away, but even the noise was muted here. She could hear her own heartbeat and Mercer's breathing much more clearly than anything else.

She twisted the blade slightly. “You're enjoying this.” She could tell.

He slid his hand down her neck an inch or two, his fingertips pressed against her pulse, “So are you,” he breathed.

What are you doing, stab him already! Part of her mind was jumping up and down and demanding action, but most of her just wanted to know what would happen next if she just let events take their course.

“You know, once you visit a place, you remember it,” Mercer said. “You can always go back there in your mind.” He wasn't pressing down any more, he was just resting his hand across her collarbones. “The real trick is taking what's in your mind, and making it reality.”

“Magic?” Rath asked. She'd heard that once, hundreds of years ago, wizards could do that kind of thing.

“No. Magic is using your mind to bend reality. This is realising that your mind _is_ reality.” He looked at her almost kindly. “I'll give you a little while to think it over.”

“You want me to kill you that badly?” she asked. She started dragging the knife up, the tip scraping against his skin, and the edge catching on his shirt.

“Maybe.” He slid his hand down, a finger momentarily resting in the hollow of her throat. “But you have to earn it first, Rath.”

One of the buttons on his shirt snapped, and her blade continued inexorably up his stomach. His fingers curled over the edge of her dress, digging into the laces that held the bodice together. She realised he was undoing with one hand what it had taken her both hands, some help from Brelas, and about a quarter of an hour to do up in the first place.

He didn't really seem to care that she was messing up his outfit. She could see the thin red line she'd left on his skin as she dragged the blade over his chest. She could feel her dress loosening.

She pulled the blade away at his collarbone and he stepped back as they regarded their handiwork for a few moments.

“Attention everyone! Could I have your attention please? I have an announcement to make!” Rath raised her eyebrows as she spotted one of the guests was standing on a chair waving his goblet around and hitting it with a spoon.

“About time,” Mercer said. “Do think over what I said, Rath.” He tugged his coat closed over his ragged shirt and abruptly stepped into the crowd. Rath made to follow and then glanced down.

“Shit!” she hissed and tugged her dress up with one hand. The toast, or speech or whatever was still ongoing, and seemed to be causing an uproar. Rath was obliged to elbow her way through the crowd, trying to keep Mercer in sight. To her surprise, she saw Malborn let him behind the bar.

He was in on this too? Interesting. She couldn't let Mercer get away; she'd worry about his riddles later.

By the time she made it to the bar, Mercer was gone and Malborn was guarding it again. Rath opened her eyes wide and tried to look like she was going to cry.

“My dress, please. Let me through. H-he-” she hitched her breath.

Malborn frowned and hesitated for a moment. “All right, don't make a fuss. Clean yourself up as fast as you can.”

She practically dived through the doorway. Mercer was gone. This path led through the kitchens and into the rest of the embassy. Rath kept her up her pretence of emotional distress, put her head down and strode through, waving away any concerned questions.

“I'll be back! I'm just taking my break.” She breathed a sigh of relief when she closed the kitchen door behind her. 

“Hey, should you be back here?” 

The armour-clad guard approached and Rath let her expression dissolve into a grateful smile that wasn't all that feigned.

“Oh, thank the Eight you're here,” she said fervently, dropping her hand from her dress. Confident the guard's eyes were on her left hand, she struck out with her right, punching the cheese knife under the guard's elven helmet and into his throat. “You have no idea how badly I need a better weapon and a set of armour.”

She kicked open the door to a store room and dragged the still-gurgling guard into it before stripping off her dress and his armour as fast as she could. It wasn't the best fit, and it would only work as a disguise from the back, but it would do. She swung the guard's blade a couple of times to get a feel for its balance and then strode out.

It didn't sound like the alarm had been raised, but she hadn't expected it would be. Mercer wouldn't be caught if he didn't want to be. But where had he gone? She moved as quietly as she could, avoiding the other guards who clanked around oblivious. A swirl of fresh snow, already starting to melt on the stone floor, led her outside, and a gutted Thalmor mage bleeding on the snow confirmed she was on the right track.

There was no hiding that. The first guard who spotted the corpse would have the place stirred up like an anthill in seconds. The footprints in the snow led to a smaller building near the wall of the compound, and Rath ran.


End file.
